


act natural

by midnightfreeway



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Food, M/M, Restaurants, Romantic Comedy, Valentine's Day, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightfreeway/pseuds/midnightfreeway
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley bump into each other at a fancy restaurant on Valentine’s Day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104
Collections: Amazing Good Omens





	act natural

Valentine’s Day is an excellent day to be a demon. Humans are easy targets when expectations and emotions run high, more likely to act before they think. It also calls for a whole new set of temptations and allows Crowley to have fun with his work. Awkward first dates, horribly inappropriate gifts, disastrous anniversary parties -- he enjoys it all, the chaos and the turmoil, the feeling of satisfaction after a job well done. Even now, years later, it’s still a delight.

This is what Crowley thinks about as he saunters into a well-loved, Michelin-starred restaurant in Mayfair on Valentine’s Day. Inside, the mood is undeniably romantic. The lights are low, and there’s soft piano music playing in the background, the delicate melody almost drowned out by the clatter of cutlery from the dining room, the hushed murmur of a hundred intimate conversations. There is a long queue of people waiting to be seated -- all couples, of course, the women wearing expensive-looking dresses or pantsuits and the men standing around in suits, hands in their pockets. Crowley slips past the crowd, heading to the front of the queue, but then--

\--but then he catches a glimpse of a head of curly hair, a familiar cream-coloured overcoat. Crowley makes his way closer, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Well,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “Didn’t expect to see you here, angel.”

Aziraphale’s head whips around at the sound of his voice.

“Crowley!” he says, a little too loudly, before lowering his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing you are, obviously.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens into a scowl. “I highly doubt we’re here for the same reason, dear boy.”

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh. “I do, I do. Here for a quick temptation?”

“You know me too well,” Crowley says. “And you? Spreading love and joy on Valentine’s Day?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, unflappable. “Today is an excellent day to be an angel. It’s a celebration of everything we stand for. Love, trust, happiness, devotion--”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twists into a half-hearted grimace. “Yes, yes, I get it. No need to go on.”

Aziraphale glances around before leaning closer. “I understand you’re only trying to do your job, but I have to say I am disappointed in you. Tempting couples on Valentine’s Day? Very ill-advised, if you ask me.”

“Look, it’s all about making the biggest impact with the least amount of work,” Crowley says. “This is an easy way of doing it. You see all the untapped potential here? All these couples?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “but in a very different way than you do.”

The queue moves forward, and they come face-to-face with a bright-eyed waitress, her hair pulled back into an immaculate topknot. Before Crowley can say anything, Aziraphale hooks an arm around his elbow and pulls him closer.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale says to the waitress. “A table for two, please.”

“Of course,” she says with a smile, like they haven’t just walked in and asked for a table on what must be one of the busiest nights of the entire year. “This way, please.” 

“Thank you, dear, and happy Valentine’s Day,” Aziraphale says, beaming at her.

They follow another waitress through a set of double doors and into the dining room. Crowley slows down and yanks Aziraphale’s arm, their bodies bumping against each other. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, growling into Aziraphale’s ear.

“Do you remember what I told you once?” Aziraphale asks. “Evil never sleeps, and Virtue is ever-vigilant. I am merely fulfilling my job as an angel and keeping an eye on you. I will intervene if I must, of course.”

“Well, great job,” Crowley says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ll receive a commendation for your efforts, I’m sure. A divine pat on the back, maybe, or a ticket to a heavenly concert. Celestial harmonies for ever and ever.”

Aziraphale doesn’t rise to it. “Besides, we look less conspicuous this way. Have you ever dined alone in a restaurant on Valentine’s Day?”

As much as Crowley wants to argue, he has to admit that Aziraphale has a point. He has experienced it all too many times before, the pitying looks of passing waiters and waitresses, the curious glances of other clients. _What are you staring at?_ part of him wants to ask them, hissing. _This is a work event._ He ends up keeping his eyes on his drink instead, hiding behind his sunglasses.

The waitress shows them to their table in the middle of the spacious, high-ceilinged room. It’s a terrible cliché, like a scene from a romantic movie: pristine white tablecloth, deep red napkins, a lit candle. All around them, no matter where they look, there are couples gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, holding hands over the table, feeding each other pastel-coloured macarons. Crowley is starting to sweat in his suit, his skin uncomfortably hot under the fabric. He slides onto his seat and accepts the menu from the waitress, grateful to have something to do with his hands. 

“So,” Aziraphale says, after they have ordered and received their drinks. Crowley is sipping his wine a little too quickly, his cool facade crumbling fast. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. What have you been up to?”

Crowley leans over the table, fingers tracing the stem of the wine glass. What has he been up to? He slept for a few days, hiding away from the February chill, the continuous rain. Took out the offending plants that had withered during his -- absence. Went to France for a temptation, cruising on motorways, a bag of croissants sitting on the passenger seat.

“Oh, this and that,” he says. “Nothing too important. And you?”

“Same old, same old. Shopkeeping duties, for the most part. I try to keep the shop closed as much as possible, but customers have been oddly persistent lately, browsing shelves for hours on end. I’d rather they bought flowers for their loved ones, not books. At least not _my_ books.”

Crowley narrows his eyes, squinting hard.

“Did you cut your hair?” he asks.

Aziraphale touches his curls, wide-eyed at first, like he can’t possibly imagine what Crowley is talking about. Then, a flicker of a smile crosses his face, ephemeral but beautiful. 

“I did have a quick trim last week, yes. I’m glad you noticed.”

How could Crowley not have noticed? He thinks about Aziraphale’s hair more than he’d like to admit, those soft, well-kept curls that at times seem to have a mind of their own. He has dreamt about pushing his hand into Aziraphale’s hair, about combing through his curls with his fingers, about tracing patterns on his scalp--

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is busy staring at Crowley’s hand, lost in thought.

“Is that a new watch?” he asks, carefully. 

Crowley glances down at his wrist, then back up at Aziraphale, blinking in surprise.

“Well, I was in the Burlington Arcade the other day and had some time to kill,” he says, as nonchalant as possible. 

“It looks good on you,” Aziraphale says. “Very elegant and stylish. Can I see?”

Crowley lets go of the glass and thrusts his hand towards Aziraphale, fingers resting on the tablecloth. Aziraphale takes his hand, leaning over for a closer inspection. His skin is impossibly warm and soft, the nails impeccably manicured. Crowley sucks in a breath, tries to ignore the tingling of his fingertips, the warmth blooming in his chest.

Just as Aziraphale is about to say something, the waitress appears at their table.

“And here are your entrées, gentlemen,” she says, eyes lingering on their joined hands as she sets the plates on the table. Crowley knows exactly what it looks like, the two of them touching each other like this. He bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t move. 

Aziraphale is the one to pull his hand away first, beaming up at the waitress. He looks even more angelic than usual here, bathed in the soft candlelight, the ends of his curls dipped in gold. Crowley allows himself to stare, just for a moment.

The food is a wonderful distraction, a treat for all senses. It’s seared scallops with caviar for him and sea bream ceviche for Aziraphale, the plates presented like delicate artwork. Crowley’s entrée looks beautiful, the scallops golden-brown and the accompanying white wine sauce drizzled artfully on the plate, and it tastes even better, the eggs popping in his mouth, the saltiness melting on his tongue. He takes small forkfuls and chews slowly, and for a moment, he can’t think about anything else but the food and the way it tastes and smells, his senses overwhelmed in the best way possible.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says when he’s done, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “That was divine. How was yours?”

“Delicious,” Crowley says, setting his fork on the plate with a pronounced clink. “It’s been a while since I had really good scallops.”

“It takes a skilled cook, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Not that we don’t have excellent chefs here in London, of course, but I would be lying if I said I still don’t think about those scallops I had in Rennes way back in the day. Pan-seared in garlic butter, with a sprinkle of organic herbs on top. The chef really knew what he was doing. The food was wonderful.”

“Speaking of which,” Crowley says. “I was in France last week. Strasbourg, to be more specific. It was a quick trip, really.”

Aziraphale lowers the napkin and looks up at him in surprise. “Oh, really? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What did you eat?”

“I didn’t go there for food, angel,” Crowley says. “I did have a tarte flambée before leaving, though.”

“An indisputable classic,” Aziraphale says. He puts his elbows on the table, leans forward with a sigh. “Oh, you should have taken me with you. I miss Strasbourg terribly. Haven’t been there since the late sixties, I think.”

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed it,” Crowley says. “It was cold and rainy, and the traffic was just awful. Not my influence, I should add.”

Aziraphale is hardly listening. “I’m not sure if I have told you this, but I’ve been meaning to go to France for a while now. Later in the spring, maybe, or sometime in the summer. I’ll have to spend a day or two in Paris, but I was thinking of traveling south as soon as I get the chance. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Lyon would be nice,” Crowley says. “Do you think the restaurant that served excellent coq au vin is still open?”

“I do hope so. When was it, exactly? Early fifties?”

“Somewhere around that time, yes. I still remember what the place looked like. Small side street, bright red facade.”

“Me, too. My word, has it really been decades?” 

It has, which is why they need to go again, together. It’s not a bad idea at all, a culinary trip to Lyon with Aziraphale. They could revisit their favourite restaurants and discover new ones, spending their days in brasseries rather than in bookshops or record shops. In the afternoons, they would go for a walk in the old town, stopping by a pâtisserie on their way back to the hotel. Aziraphale would be bright-eyed and red-cheeked, a truly divine sight. He would point out all the old buildings to Crowley, his smile as radiant as the sun, pale curls swaying in the wind--

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, eyes fixed on something behind Crowley. “I think our food is coming.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as the main courses are served, everything else momentarily forgotten. Crowley’s duck breast looks delicious, but he’s starting to think he should have chosen Aziraphale’s black truffle pasta instead, the tagliatelle piled high on the plate, a generous amount of shaved truffles on top. He plans on stealing a bite while Aziraphale is distracted, but the opportunity presents itself sooner than he had expected.

“This is incredible,” Aziraphale says with a dreamy sigh, swallowing his first mouthful. “You have to taste this, Crowley.”

He twirls long strands of pasta around his fork and holds it out to Crowley, waiting. Crowley wants to protest, wants to hiss, _not now, angel,_ but for someone whose job revolves around tempting people, he has always been terrible at resisting temptations himself, especially when Aziraphale is involved. He leans forward on instinct and allows Aziraphale to slide the fork into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asks, watching Crowley’s reaction.

“Oh, this is heav--er, to die for. I like the truffles, and the creaminess of the sauce. Rich but not too heavy.”

“I knew you would appreciate it,” Aziraphale says. “Save me a bite of that duck, will you?”

“Well, while we’re at it,” Crowley says. He picks up his knife and cuts off a piece, and Aziraphale accepts the bite, eyes sliding shut as he chews, the corners of his lips tugging up. Crowley looks at his face, the features he has known since the beginning of time, and hates how weak he is, how absolutely _smitten_ , barely able to contain himself. It’s not a good look on a demon, especially in a place like this. Too much softness, and he’ll lose what little credibility he has left.

After the main course, Crowley longs for something sweet to balance out the savoury tenderness of the duck. He peruses the dessert menu while Aziraphale strikes up a polite conversation with the waitress, the two of them chattering about the weather, the food. It’s mindlessly boring, nothing more than background noise for Crowley, until his ears pick up the words, _and what would you and your husband like for dessert?_ , and it feels like a rug has been pulled out from under him, sending him into a freefall. He looks up at her, wanting to say something, anything, but Aziraphale is already leaning over to take a look at the menu, perfectly unperturbed.

“What are you in the mood for, my dear?” he asks, his hand reaching for Crowley’s wrist.

“Whatever you want is fine with me, angel,” Crowley says, sighing. This is by no means new to him, the whole pretending-to-be-a-couple thing, but tonight, there is a strange flutter in the pit of his stomach, like butterflies flapping their wings, trying to break free.

“Are you sure? I--”

“Yes, really. Always.” 

“If you insist,” Aziraphale says, and the look in his eyes is genuine, warm with affection. Crowley releases a slow breath. He doesn’t blink until the waitress is gone and Aziraphale has removed his hand from his wrist.

It’s a shared dessert, of course: a gorgeous chocolate fondant, firm but fluffy on the outside and smooth and silky on the inside. They put the plate in the middle of the table, shoulders hunched as they eat. It’s no different from eating off Aziraphale’s plate, something Crowley has done a million times before, and after a while, he finds himself enjoying it, the clink of their spoons against the china, the sweet bitterness of the chocolate on his tongue. He lets Aziraphale have the last bite, and the smile Aziraphale gives him is enough to make his heart sing, a secret melody coursing through his veins. Crowley doesn’t think about it, tells himself not to.

Afterwards, the conversation flows like good wine, smooth and rich and heady. Talking to Aziraphale often makes Crowley feel grounded in a way nothing else does, anchored in the present, and tonight is no exception. He is safe, enveloped in conversation, and everything else fades away, irrelevant and ignored and forgotten. It’s a lovely bubble to be in, and he doesn’t want it to ever burst. 

“All I’m saying is,” Crowley says after one too many glasses of wine, slurring just slightly. “All I’m saying is, axolotls and regeneration. I mean, why only them? Sure, there are a few other animals that are also capable of regrowing organs and body parts, but why only them?”

“Well, their bodies react to injuries in a different way than other animals,” Aziraphale says. “From what I understand, their cells--”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but why are they the only animals capable of doing it? I could name hundreds -- no, thousands of animals that would benefit from the ability to--”

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale says. He sighs, twisting the napkin between his fingers. “How many times have we talked about this? One cannot question ineffability. It is what it is. There is no sense dwelling on it.”

“The whole thing is not well thought out at all, if you ask me,” Crowley says. “All I’m saying is, nature is a dangerous place. That is all.”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale pinches his eyes shut, opens them again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I _really_ need to get started with--”

He glances around, blinking in confusion, and Crowley can immediately tell something is wrong by the way his shoulders tense. Crowley sits up straighter and turns his head, a chill creeping up his spine. 

The restaurant is almost empty now, save for a few couples, who are also getting ready to leave, paying for their meals or walking out, holding hands. There are a handful of waiters and waitresses around, putting out candles and adjusting tablecloths. The murmur of conversation has died away, the near-silence only interrupted by the clicking of shoes on the floor, a few spoken words, a soft peal of laughter.

“What time is it?” Aziraphale asks, a hint of alarm in his voice. 

Crowley glances down at his watch. It’s ten minutes past the closing time.

“Oh, great,” he says, not even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Not a single temptation carried out. You’re an awful distraction, angel.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed, a bright hue of red. 

“I was here first! You’re the one who distracted me.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Crowley asks. “Me not tempting anyone here, tonight?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t come here just to stop you from going through with whatever you had planned for tonight. I had _work_ to do.”

Crowley is on his feet in an instant, ready to storm out. His anger is already dissipating, assuaged by the fact that the night was everything but unpleasant, but it’s easier to act like this, like there is someone else to blame for his own incompetence.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “Do you want a ride home?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker over to his face. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says, pushing back his chair.

It’s raining outside, lightly but persistently. They walk to the Bentley in somber silence, shoes squeaking against the wet pavement. Crowley sobers up before sliding into the driver’s seat, waits for Aziraphale to walk around the car and climb in. 

They sit side by side, without speaking, listening to the patter on the roof, the occasional roar of a passing car. Through the rain-soaked windshield, the city looks like a dark blur, too vague to be real.

Aziraphale speaks first, with a careful, matter-of-fact tone.

“Despite everything, I have to say it was a pleasant evening.”

Crowley swallows. He can still taste the chocolate on his tongue. 

“It wasn’t half bad,” he says. “The food made up for it, and the wine.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement. 

“And the company,” he says, voice softer now.

Crowley glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale is looking at him, head turned just slightly, a hint of a smile on his lips. His expression is unmistakably fond.

Crowley lets out a slow exhale. He is acutely aware of the pounding of his heart, the blood in his veins, the heat on his cheeks.

“And the company,” he agrees.

Aziraphale turns his head away, but Crowley manages to catch a glimpse of his smile, soft and genuine and even more beautiful than before. Crowley stares like a fool, openly and unabashedly, before averting his eyes. He turns on the ignition and steps on the gas, just to give himself something to do.

The city is ablaze with lights, reflected in puddles of rain. They cruise through the bustling streets of London, Crowley holding the wheel, Aziraphale’s hands folded neatly in his lap. It’s not a bad night to be here, in this car, with a sleepy-eyed angel in the passenger seat. Crowley takes a few extra turns; Aziraphale doesn’t mention it.

“Are you in the mood for tea?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley pulls over in front of the bookshop, a maneuver he has done a thousand times before. “I have biscuits, too. Those soft, crumbly ones.”

Crowley glances over at him, then away again, acting like he’s considering the offer. In reality, he has already made up his mind. How could he ever say no?

“You know I’m always in the mood for tea,” he says and turns off the engine.


End file.
